


K-A

by koanju (verstehen)



Category: Ocean's Eleven (2001)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:12:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verstehen/pseuds/koanju
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why Rusty always gets involved in such lame endeavors when he tries to go straight</p>
            </blockquote>





	K-A

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Take The House. I have never been farther east than Tennessee, so please forgive my complete and total ignorance about Atlantic City. I tried to research; I did. Honest. I also have a second story, for two other scenarios, but I couldn’t get it done in time (it’s 10 pages handwritten at the moment and barely a fourth of the way through the plot) so until I have that finished, I have this, somewhat meager, offering instead. With thanks to Titti for a last minute editing job that I greatly appreciated.

The problem with being seventeen was that there weren’t a whole lot of ways to make money to pay for your father’s drinking habit so the old man didn’t get violent.

A real job was out, of course, because you didn’t have the diploma yet and were supposedly stuck in school for eight hours a day.

Besides, Rusty Ryan wasn’t made for flipping burgers, even if the bright lights of the casinos weren’t a much better lure. Most of the guys he saw there, they’d learned their skills from their fathers. No big surprise, really, girls learned how to waitress and the guys learned card sharking. A tradition.

Figured Rusty would be the oddball. He learned tricks from his mom and a hotfoot from his dad. Even worse, both were convinced that he was going to grow up and be a good boy. A doctor; maybe a brain surgeon. They were looking to be supported in their old age.

If there was one thing Rusty knew: that just wasn’t going to happen.

But what his parents didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

He tapped a rhythm out on the table with his fingers, instantly calculating in his head where the next card was. He had sixteen down on the table; the dealer had seventeen. Next up was a three. “Hit me,” he said. Winning this hand would double his pot and more than cover the cost of his next car payment. It wasn’t the most fancy thing he could pick out, but for a seventeen year old kid passing himself off as twenty-one — down to the fake social security number — Rusty thought he was doing pretty good.

The dealer flipped the next card. Just as he thought: a three. “Congratulations,” the dealer nodded.

Rusty shrugged nonchalantly, feeling the fabric of the suit he’d taken from his dad’s closet move loosely over his shoulder. “Guess I’m on a roll.”

He watched the dealer start to shuffle. It wasn’t even that hard to count anymore. He’d been hustling for so long it was almost second nature to check things out. But the shuffling kept going, long past when Rusty expected it to stop. He felt his stomach tighten and tapped his fingers on the table impatiently. Something was up. “Think they’re well and truly shuffled by now,” he tried.

The dealer’s eyes flicked back, over Rusty’s shoulder, and the tightness in his stomach got a whole hell of a lot worse.

Card counting wasn’t _technically_ illegal.

Didn’t stop them from breaking your bones and tossing you out. That’s why Rusty was always careful; if he were caught, he’d be eighty-sixed from every casino in Atlantic City.

“Sir?” There was a light tap on his shoulder and Rusty tensed all over.

Well, shit.

He turned in his chair. The casino manager, dressed in a suit far snazzier than Rusty’s own, was standing here, one hand on Rusty’s shoulder and the other in his pocket. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me.”

Rusty gave the man a bright smile. It was worth a shot trying to charm his way out of this. “Let me get my chips.” He started collecting them from the table and dropping them into his pocket. “Is there a problem?”

The hand tightened into his shoulder, the man’s nails digging into his collar. “We’ll talk about this off the floor, sir.”

Rusty dropped the act and nodded. “Sure, sure.” The last of the chips in his hands, he stood. “Where to?”

“Just follow me.” The flat statement was followed by another tight squeeze of his shoulder, and the man guided him out and toward the side doors of the casino.

Casinos, Rusty knew, were built deliberately like a maze. Owners didn’t want people leaving. Eating, drinking, sleeping, and screwing: all of it happened at a casino by design. Rusty knew, better than most, that the real money for a casino was in the gambling. If the guests left, for whatever reason, the casino was losing money.

So if the casino manager was steering him toward one of those small, unseen, unobtrusive exits, Rusty knew he was screwed in a way that definitely wasn’t going to involve an escort.

So he kept his mouth shut and let the manager drag him outside. “You’re banned,” the man said flatly, letting his death grip on Rusty’s skin go.

Just as he expected and, thankfully, it looked like he might get out of here with his face intact. “Gotcha.” He adjusted his jacket, surreptitiously palming some of the chips. He could pay someone else off to go collect.

“I want your chips,” the manager said next, right on cue.

“Yeah, whatever you say.” Rusty handed over the larger bundle. “Just don’t hurt me, okay?”

The manager eyeballed him, taking the chips without even looking or counting them out. “Look, kid, I’m pretty sure you’re underage. You run a good con but you’re not that slick and if you keep this up, you’re going to run into someone better and nastier than me. Got it?”

He did exactly what the burly manager was expecting: he nodded. He didn’t try a contrite look or an apology or even looking remorseful because he knew he wasn’t that good - yet — and the last thing he needed was this guy getting pissed if he twigged that Rusty was continuing the con when he was doing the right thing.

“Good,” the manager nodded. “And because I’m a nice guy, I’ll even let you keep the 500 hundred you palmed. But if I _ever_ see you back here, you’re going to regret it. Same goes for any casino.”

His stomach bottomed out completely. “Yes, sir.”

“Now get outta here. I’m tired of looking at you.” The casino manager shoved him, down the boardwalk, toward the street and away from the casino. He caught his balance, before he tripped onto the concrete, and readjusted his suit. Again.

It had been a 1000 he’d stashed. What the manager didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Rusty smiled and walked out onto the street. It was only a temporary setback. He could handle getting a real job for a while. The Chinese place near his home was hiring.

Annoying, but at least it’d make his parents happy.


End file.
